


Always Her Doctor

by lastincurableromantic



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastincurableromantic/pseuds/lastincurableromantic
Summary: At night, Rose dreams of him.





	Always Her Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny, tiny spoiler for Jenny Colgan's short story.

At night, she dreams.

In the deep, dark quiet of the night she dreams of him: of dark brown eyes and thick, gravity-defying hair, of a blur of brown pinstripes and dirty white Converses in constant motion. Or of short hair and icy blue eyes, of strong, leather-clad arms tightly wrapped around her, lifting her up in the triumph of great successes or small victories, or dipping her as they dance in celebration of life, of everyone living. Or in comfort as she grieves her father, long and newly dead.

They are the gift, the curse of Bad Wolf, her dreams. She knows that, deep down, in her bones and sinew, in every one of her cells, in every atom that makes up her physical existence. In her dreams she sees things, some familiar but many that she’s never seen while awake but knows are real nonetheless: plastic people and green, scaly monsters; scribbled drawings come to life and shimmering creatures made of light and sound with the lifespan of mayflies; horned demons and metal men and tentacled creatures filled with hate. She sees towering waves frozen in a moment in time; thick green grass that smells of apples; clear blue skies filled with zeppelins; dual suns setting over forests of silver trees and fields of deep scarlet. And she sees him: tall and short, old and young, pleasingly plump and painfully thin, wearing bowties and jumpers and fezzes and long scarves, his hair blond, brunette and grey. She’s even seen her, with chin-length blond hair, a rainbow-striped shirt and turquoise trousers, unfamiliar in form and yet oh, so familiar in the excitement, in the joy of life and the unknown that she’s immediately recognizable as the incredible alien she loves.

Sometimes, not often but sometimes, her dreams are nightmares. Of worlds where she awakens in a bright pink room, alarm blaring, filled with a longing for something she’s never known and can’t put into words. Worlds where she never met him, yet somehow he’s still there, if only because he’s conspicuous by his absence. At other times she dreams of deserted beaches, of white walls, of losing her grip and falling into the Void. Of dead or dying worlds because he never existed in them, or because someone turned right instead of left. Of parallel worlds where he exists but she never finds him. 

But mostly she dreams she’s with him, still flying amongst the stars in his magical blue box or living in a cottage on the English coast or a flat in London or a mansion with her parents. Sometimes he’s working with her at Torchwood, at others he’s a professor or a writer or a scientist. In some of them, he even calls himself by another name—James or John or Ian or Corin—but it doesn’t change who he is. Who she knows him to be.

At night, she dreams of other worlds, but when she wakes, in their bed in the old farmhouse outside of Cardiff, she smiles. At the sight of him next to her, his wild hair sticking every which way, his freckled face buried in the pillow. Or at the warmth of his arms encircling her, the sound of his single heart beating as her head presses against his chest. She smiles at the man who promised her forever.

She sees the Doctor. Her Doctor. The Doctor who stayed.


End file.
